


Solace

by kaylakaboo



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Steve Rogers - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Neighbor au, Neighbors, soft and sweet with only a smidge of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:02:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22776844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaylakaboo/pseuds/kaylakaboo
Summary: You’ve recently switched to the night shift and the adjustment hasn’t been great. Your neighbor would agree.
Relationships: Captain America/Reader, Steve Rogers/Reader
Kudos: 92





	Solace

Steve Rogers considers himself a reasonable man, he really does. Remains patient with the trainees, shows them new techniques again and again until his mind melts, takes each clipped jaw in stride. He even always smiles at the children trying to climb his body in their excitement when all he wants is a coffee. 

During those precious moments he isn’t in the suit, he’s a very quiet, laid back man.

Which is why he’s gone two months without breaking down your door in the middle of the night when he hears that shrill, incessant alarm you seem to be immune to seeping through the shared wall.

He’s been tortured before. This is worse.

Each time he comes home from a mission, peels the Kevlar from his body, and sinks to his bed, your alarm steals away the hope of a quick slumber and he loathes you for it.

Sam tells him to try writing a letter, Natasha offers to break in and steal it.

He considers both options, the latter more seriously, until one afternoon he runs into you after his morning jog. The elevator doors are almost closed when he shoves his hand in the small opening. He mutters an apology, but hears no response.

You’re leaned on the wall, arms crossed before your chest, head resting against the metal and for a moment he thinks you may actually be asleep.

He doesn’t say anything, he’s been there.

“6B right?” You mumble. He’s not sure he’s heard you correctly. “I’m 6A. I think I’ve seen you around.”

When you look over at him, his stomach flops, does somersaults in his belly. You look positively wrecked. The light blue scrubs you’re wearing are splattered and stained with various colors, and the bags under your eyes are deep enough he’s almost concerned for your health.

Yet he thinks you may be the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“Uh- yeah, Steve.” He manages.

You nod, go back to resting your head. “Y/N.”

He imagines he may be more tolerant going forward.

**

He tries to catch you again in the following weeks, but your schedule seems to be more unpredictable than his. That stupid, stupid alarm still wakes him most nights, but he finds it easier to suffer through now.

**

One night he comes home after a long mission. Exhaustion weighs his body enough he almost considers passing out by the door, but after days of sleeping on dirt floors, his back is pleading for the comfort of his bed.

Looking at his watch he knows he has about 45 minutes before you have to be up for work. Maybe it’s the hope that for one night he could have a restful sleep, or perhaps the humidity of the jungle had just dissolved his patience, but his feet have padded their way to the hallway before he truly knows what he’s going to do.

Barefoot before your door, he knocks. Once. Twice. Then a third time.

He waits patiently, hears you mumble something less than kind from behind the door and finds himself smiling at the irony.

**

Having someone pound on your door at midnight, ripping you from a dead sleep, is only about the third worst thing to happen to you this week.

You fling the door open. “Do you have any…“

Of all the people it could’ve been, Martha from 5A coming to complain about nonexistent noise, the new mom from 6F asking you to check out her baby for the third time this week, or the teen from 2 trying to convince you he definitely needs a medical marijuana card, a very tired Captain America leaning on your door frame is the last thing you expected.

He raises a brow at your unfinished threat. “Ah yes, 12:09. 21 minutes before your alarm.”

You furrow your brows. “How do- “

“Look,” He interrupts, pushing off from your door frame, you don’t miss his wince- the way he favors his right side. “I know you probably have a very important job, and getting up in the middle of the night for shifts like those must be brutal, but I’ve just gotten off quite a draining ‘shift’ myself and was hoping that for at least one night you could just not.”

You’re catching on. “’Just not?’ Are you talking about my alarm?” He nods. You’re stunned, having thought that with as much as you pay a month, the walls would’ve been much thicker. Or is it really that loud? Adjusting to the night shift had been rough. “Oh, wow, I am so sorry.”

He shakes his head and points to his ear. “Super good hearing, don’t worry about it. Thank you.” He turns to walk away and that’s when you notice his limp, and the blood.

“Woah, wait. Did you have anyone look at that?” You point at his leg and he shrugs, gives you a less than assuring ‘it’s fine’ and goes to open his apartment door. “Uh- no. That’s a 6-inch lac that’s still actively bleeding? Are you insane? Please, let me take a look.”

“That’s very kind, but-“

“Your ribs could also be broken and I’ll just spend all day worrying about if you died in your sleep from a punctured lung or something. I can’t have Captain America’s death on my conscious.”

He takes a moment to look you up and down, weighs his chances of being able to talk his way out of whatever this is since he’ll heal on his own, eventually, but the look in your eyes tells him he’d have more luck trying to convince Martha he doesn’t actually stomp around just to annoy her.

“Alright.”

**

Managing to get Steve to strip down to some shorts and a tank top, he’s sat at your kitchen table. It took you a solid five minutes to convince him that he needed stitches, and lucky for him, you steal suture kits.

“You know, when you told me your name it would’ve been the perfect moment to mention you’re Steve as in Steve Rogers.” You lightly chastise, holding pressure to his thigh.

He doesn’t even flinch. “Not like I was hiding it. You did look right at me.”

You laugh. “Well I had just gotten off a 36-hour shift, you cannot hold that against me.”

He watches quietly as you work, forehead creased with worry and constantly mumbling about how he’s lucky there’s no signs of infection, with an occasional ‘you really weren’t going to do anything about this’. He finds your commentary amusing.

Your fingers glide across his skin and your touch is faint enough it almost tickles. You’re worried about nerve damage, but he thinks you’re just that good.

With a pile of red stained gauze by your side and the area around his wound as clean as you could get it, you grab a lamp from your desk and pick up the needle with your hemostat. Well, not yours, really. Also stolen, but sterile!

When you hold the needle up and adjust your grip on the clamp, he gives you a wary look.

“What?”

“I don’t know how I feel about a thief stitching me back together.” He says with a raised brow. There’s a glint in his eyes, the smallest twitch at the edge of his lips.

You roll your eyes. “With as hard as they work me, this is the least they owe me.”

“What do you even use them for?”

Your quite for a moment. “Sewing.” You say quietly and he barks a laugh. “I just- hush, don’t distract me.”

He complies, sits back and watches you fondly. Your teeth sink into the pillow of your lip each time you push the needle into the flesh of his thigh. You had apologized for not having any kind of numbing agent, but he had assured you that he’d be just fine.

Still, you glace up with each pull to make sure it’s not some macho show. Then again, he was Captain American and by the look of him at this moment, the pinch of a needle is probably more an annoying after thought than anything else.

Cutting the last stitch, you place the bandaging and offer him a smile. He thanks you sincerely, but you tsk when he tries to get past you to the door.

“Shirt off.” You order. He takes a half step back, cocks his head to the side and smirks. How he could be even slightly amorous at this moment is beyond you. “I want to check your ribs, make sure nothing’s displaced.” Something in his eyes shifts, he’s hesitant- guarded- and you’re unsure why. “I haven’t seen you take a single normal breath in the time you’ve been here. A simple, quick exam can tell me if there’s anything to worry about.”

He looks away and you’re about to suggest that he just check in with the medical team at wherever it is that super people work. They have to have medical staff, right? You tuck that question away for later.

Steve looks back to you and nods, pulls the white cotton over his head.

You would be completely stunned at the site of his quite perfect physique if it weren’t for the bruises blossoming bright red and dark purple across his torso.

You catch yourself moving closer, reaching forward to graze a finger around the outline of the prominent colors. “Jesus, Steve.” You whisper.

“Heard that phrase before, never in a situation like this, though.” He mumbles, but you ignore him and begin to prod as carefully as you can.

When you apply pressure to a certain spot that looks the most concerning, his breath exhales quickly in a hiss. “Sorry.” You mumble and find yourself asking how this happened before you can stop yourself.

He grabs your hand in his to stop your exploring fingers. The memory from these injuries hadn’t quite made their way through him yet, they sat too fresh on the forefront of his mind and being this vulnerable before someone he barely knows is quickly becoming too much.

“I’m fine, darlin’, really.” He says softly. You of course don’t buy it for a minute, but the proximity of him steals your fight, you lose your argument in the blue of his eyes.

“Ice it.” You order weakly. “Maybe just bruised, probably fractured.”

He nods, twitches the edges of his lips into a smile. Your hand is still in his, he brings it up to ghost your knuckles against his lips and thanks you again.

He leaves you there, stunned. You’re 15 minutes late for work.

**

“Wait. You had the Steve Rogers in your apartment half naked?” Your friend prods during your lunch break. You nod and lower your forehead to rest against your coffee cup. “And you didn’t even take advantage, kudos to you. Wait, is this a HIPAA violation?”

You sigh and look up to meet her narrowed eyes. “Honestly, I don’t know. Wouldn’t be surprised if SHIELD took me out, though.”

“Is that even a thing anymore? I can’t keep up with that craziness.” She shakes her head.

“Guess I could ask my neighbor, but I doubt he’d tell me the truth.”

“You have to see him again. You’re going to see him again right?” You try to ignore the excitement in her voice.

“He is my neighbor and those sutures have to come out eventually. Although he’ll probably just rip them out himself.” The thought makes you cringe.

“You know that’s not-“

Thankfully your pager goes off right then, cutting her interrogation short. “Sorry! Incoming trauma, gotta bounce.”

**

Steve comes home that evening to ice packs with the nearby hospital logo on them by his door. “Stop stealing from work.” He calls out and is rewarded with your laughter floating out from under your door.

**

He starts to make a habit of it, showing up at your doorstep sometimes bruised, usually bloody. You start to keep a bigger stock of supplies around, and worry on the nights he doesn’t show before you leave when you know he’s on mission.

He tries to message you when service and circumstance allows, just to ease you mind.

Every once in a while, you’ll find him sitting in the hallway beside your door, waiting with food and some injury that needs your attention.

Eventually you get around to asking him if there just isn’t any medical staff where he is, he tells you this is just more convenient. You don’t prod, but think it may have more to do with the way you treat him. Like a patient, a person, not an Avenger.

**

One night a knock awakes you in the middle of the night. You jump out of bed, knowing it’s most likely him. When you open the door and lay eyes on him, your heart stops.

He’s leaned against the doorway, barely able to hold himself up. There’s blood on the wall, his hands, his face, everywhere. He’s ghostly pale and you can tell he can hardly focus his eyes.

Before he can pass out, you wedge yourself under his arm and try to guide him inside.

“Probably shoulda just went to medical, shouldn’t’ve driven.” He tells you before collapsing onto your couch and you work quickly to get his suit off, apologizing each time he groans in pain.

“Oh god, Steve.” You whisper eyeing the deep gash on his side and quickly apply pressure.

He grunts. “I hope to hear you say something like that under different circumstances one day. You know, not in horror at the state of my health.”

“Well, don’t only show up when you’re hurt.” You shoot back and tape the gauze in place so you can get a line started. You had hoped he’d never show up this hurt, but a part of you can be relieved that you were prepared for it.

“Hey, I brought you food at work last week.”

You ignore that. “Steve, this is bad. Really bad. What the hell were you thinking?” 

Ignoring his half assed excuse, you get to work, quickly and tensely, mumbling your thoughts and a few vague threats about him not being allowed to die on you.

“Don’t worry, darlin, wouldn’t dream of goin’ anywhere.”

Once you get the bleeding under control unlike your emotions, you start to lay into him. Loudly. Your reaction is to be blamed on fear, the absolute nightmare that the man before you, who you’ve reluctantly become very attached to, could have actually died in your arms.

“I mean, seriously, Steve! How could you be so reckless?”

He drapes his arm over his eyes. “I like you more than the docs we have.”

You huff and begin cleaning the rest of him up. “I’m sure they’re just as good at their jobs.”

He shakes his head and willingly gives you the arm resting above him when you reach for it. “You’re better.” He states simply and you snort your disbelief. “Your hands are softer. I think your touch reminds me I’m still human.” He says quietly, eyes trained on the ceiling.

Your movements stall, his admission leaving you a little dazed. When he tilts his head to look over at you, you swear you stop breathing.

“I think I’ll always prefer you.”

The rational part of you is telling you to just chalk this up to blood loss, not to get your hopes up because this could get so complicated. But the other part, oh the hopeful part, was singing.

“I think I prefer you too.”

He laughs. “As a patient? Neighbor? Avenger?”

“Oh, come on now.” You start seriously. “The Black Widow went to Capitol Hill and basically told congress they wouldn’t arrest her because they didn’t have the balls. She will always be my favorite. You might be a close second.”

“Might be?”

“You’re first for everything else. Take the win, Steve.”

It only takes five minutes and two bribes to convince him to stay the night and that you should call out of work to keep an eye on him. He had protested, given you every excuse he could come up with, but you are well versed in the language of Steve Rogers.

You set a takeout menu from his favorite place before him during the middle of his ‘you have already done so much for me’ speech and he grumbles out an ‘alright’.

**

He awakes just after dawn to your head on his thigh, your body tucked tightly between his leg and the couch, and the intro music to some infomercial droning in the background. The last thing he wants to do is move, he could watch you like this all day. Maybe one day he’ll get to.

**

When you finally wake up, he’s gone. There’s a blanket from the laundry room draped over you and the smell of him still on your pillow.

A part of you is hurt, but you’re not quite sure why.

You don’t hear from him for two weeks.

**

Some coworkers suggest going downtown to blow of some steam and, since you knew Steve was home all week out of harm’s way, you agree. It’s not often you get to go out stress free.

However, mixing alcohol with a list of fairly serious questions that only one extremely handsome and infuriating super soldier could answer isn’t the greatest idea. Especially when said blue-eyed day dream lives right next door.

It isn’t long before you’re stumbling up to his door, despite the warnings of everyone that night that you absolutely should not. 2am wasn’t that late and when you get an idea in your head it’s hard to shake it.

He answers faster than you thought he would and his amused expression only distracts you for a few moments.

“You’re drunk.” He points out, trying to withhold a grin.

You scrunch your nose. “A smidge.”

“Lose your key?”

“No. Well… maybe. But that’s not why I’m here.” You take a step forward, place a hand on the door frame to steady yourself, and point a single finger at him. “I have questions that need answers, Cap. Let me in.” He raises his brows. “Please.” You add and he obliges.

You make your way to his kitchen and take a seat at the island, he trails in behind you. “Would you like some water? I think you should have some water.”

He sets a glass before you when you don’t reply, but with his eyes watching you, concern in the crease of his brow, you suddenly feel vulnerable- exposed. Where had that burning rage at him for leaving you without a word gone? Why had you been so angry to begin with?

It’s difficult to sift through the thoughts in your head, and the alcohol wasn’t exactly making that easier. What was the word for what you felt? Used? Forgotten? The last thing you wanted to do was sound like a needy child.

He leans forward onto the counter before you. “What’s on your mind, darlin’?”

Instead of meeting his eyes, you run the tip of your finger through the condensation on the glass, watch it pool on the marble.

“Talk to me. What is it?” He asks again

Suddenly you wish you had just gone home.

You chug the water. “It’s nothing, never mind. I’m just gonna go to bed.”

He steps in front of you before you can make it to the door, pleads with you again to just talk to him. You try to get past him, but his hand on your hip makes you freeze. He trails it up your side, grazes his knuckles up your arm. His fingers stop below your chin to gently tilt your eyes up to his.

His lips have barely parted to form his next plea when you cut him off. “What am I to you.” You barely whisper.

That catches him off guard.

“If this is just a convenience thing for you, I need to know.” He looks confused but you power through before he can respond. “Maybe your admission was just the blood loss talking and you disappeared to keep me from getting attached, although it’s a little late for that. Or, maybe there’s someone else. Which is fine-“

“Do you think I’m using you?” He appears hurt at the insinuation and suddenly it’s difficult to meet his eyes. “Look at me. Is that what you really think?”

“I don’t know what to think, Steve.”

He crashes his lips to yours. A sudden almost desperate act that leaves you useless. Your brain stalls and suddenly he is all there is. 

It’s needy and messy, but it is everything you needed. You thread your fingers through his hair and press yourself to him. The soft feel of him steals your hurt, dissipates that pit in your stomach, and you could almost hate him for it. 

He pulls away, breathless. “What part of ‘I will always prefer you’ wasn’t clear?”

**Author's Note:**

> This is a part of @buckygrantbarnes (Tumblr) writing challenge! I chose concept #5: Character and Reader are neighbors, and Reader keeps waking Character up by setting a really loud alarm in the middle of the night. 
> 
> Follow me on Tumblr! kayla-kaboo


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